


A 1000 Ways

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Being Bad At Apologies, Gen, Kneeling, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-04-24 02:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19163965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Marcus Johansson finally gets an apology from Brad Marchand. Sort of.





	A 1000 Ways

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ghosthunter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosthunter/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [ghosthunter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosthunter/pseuds/ghosthunter) in the [PuckingRare2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PuckingRare2019) collection. 



> There's no non-con in this, but both men are angry in the beginning and neither of them are thinking super clearly. I don't think it's anything that needs to be tagged but if you feel differently pls let me know and I'll be happy to make the changes!

 

East of Eden

But there’s heaven in our midst

And we’re never really all that far

From those we love and miss

Wade out in the water

There’s a glory all around 

The wisest say there’s a 1000 ways 

To kneel and kiss the ground

* * *

 

 

When Marcus got the call, the GM had hurried to assure him that Marchand was ready to do whatever it took to make things right between them. Marcus had agreed politely and said all the right things about looking forward to the opportunity and that of course he’d be fine playing with the guy who had ended his season with a cheap shot. Then he’d hung up the phone and worked his way through an entire bottle of vodka - something Kuzy had left the last time he’d visited.

It’s three days before Marchand says anything beyond “Good to have you here” and “pass me the tape?”. Marcus knows his role here - he’s not going to be one of those asshole Doms who uses someone’s orientation as an excuse to force a Sub to submit or force an apology against someone’s actual feelings. That doesn’t mean he’s not going to be professional. It just means he’s annoyed as hell. The guy ending his season doesn’t even have the stones to own up to it even after Marcus is his teammate? Whatever. Marcus will live.

Except then Marchand shows up at his hotel, the night after Marcus’ first goal as a Bruin, and the first thing he says when Marcus opens the door is:

“I’m sorry.”

Marcus raises his eyebrows, but he steps back, just enough to allow Marchand inside, and closes the door behind him. He stays close enough that Marchand would have to tilt his head up uncomfortably far to look him in the eye, except Marchand is keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. 

“Did management make you come?” He asks. He’s not accepting a forced apology, no matter who’s behind it. There’s no point if Marchand isn’t sincere.

That brings Marchand’s head up, familiar fire sparking in his eyes. “No. I’m here for me, because I’m sorry. I know you probably don’t believe me, but I don’t like having teammates mad at me. It’s bad for the team and it’s bad for both of us. I’m here to make it up to you. Any way you want.”

Marcus stops. That sounded - his head tilts, because Marchand is looking at his crotch, gaze lingering far too obviously for it to be anything but intentional. “Any way I want?” He checks.

Marchand nods. “I gotta be game-ready, but other than that.” He spreads his arms, his own head thrown back a little in challenge. “Yours.”

And that’s - Marcus’ blood surges hot and cold by turns, the singing of it in his ears urging him to take take  _ take _ as hard as he can, but he has to be calm. Has to think this through. Anything he wants is a - there’s a lot he can do and still leave someone in good shape to play. He turns toward the bed, tugging his tie off as he goes. He might have some idea how to start. “Come here, then.”

Marchand takes a step and Marcus holds up a hand, the blood rushing so fast in his ears he almost doesn’t hear himself say, “Stop. Crawl.”

Marchand stops all right, his cheeks flushing red so abruptly it looks like Marcus slapped him. Which, hmm. Right now, though, Marcus just raises an eyebrow, waiting. A test right out of the gate might be unfair, but Marchand wasn’t exactly thinking about fairness when he’d elbowed him in the head. Maybe some of that line of thought shows on his face, because Marchand drops stiffly to his knees and, the barest of hesitations later, to his hands as well. In his game day suit, head lowered, he crawls to where Marcus is sitting on the end of the bed. He moves to stand and then clearly thinks better of it, glancing up at Marcus instead.

“Good.” Marcus says, low, because this might be a punishment, but Marchand obeyed without any of the protest he had honestly expected. “Undress me. Clothes go on the chair in the corner. Don’t get up.”

“How am I supposed to -” Marchand starts, and Marcus slaps him. It’s meant to shock, not to seriously hurt, but Marchand’s cheek goes that beautiful red color again, and Marcus’ dick jerks in his briefs. Fuck. He might be more into this than he planned. Nicky had always teased him about how prettily his skin took marks; told him he ought to have been a Sub instead of a Dom, which was rich coming from someone who regularly showed up to practice covered in Ovi’s bite marks, but Marchand is just as pale as he is if not more, and the idea of getting his marks all over that pretty skin is definitely - well. He presses the heel of his hand to his dick as Marchand glares up at him.

“You’re supposed to be smart, Marchand. Figure it out.”

Marchand glares harder. “If you’re going to fuck me you could at least use my name.”

“Who said anything about fucking?” Marcus fists a hand in - Brad’s - hair and pulls him forward, off balance, shoving his face into his crotch. “Who says you’re worth the effort?”

Brad struggles for a moment against Marcus’ grip, and then something in his shoulders gives, and Marcus feels the swipe of a warm, wet tongue over his cloth covered dick. Marcus can’t help the aborted jump of his hips at the touch, and he hauls Brad back. “I told you to undress me, not get your tongue out of your mouth again,” he says curtly. “Or didn’t you learn your lesson about that already.”

Marchy flashes him that grin, the same one he’d flung at him from the bench as Marcus had been skated off the ice. “I try never to learn anything.”

“It shows.” 

There’s a brief shadow of something on Brad’s face at that. It’s there and gone too quickly for Marcus to interpret, but nevertheless he’s only stern, not harsh, when he repeats, “Undress me.”

Brad obeys, for once without any backtalk, straining to reach the top buttons of Marcus’ shirt and tug it off his shoulders. That red flush is creeping from his face to the back of his neck and all down his chest as he bends with his face nearly in the carpet to slowly untie Marcus’ right shoe and tug it off. Marcus rests his other foot on Brad’s back as he reaches for the left shoe. Under it, he feels him tense. Marcus doesn’t put more weight than is necessary for him to keep his balance, and after a few seconds of silence that’s more weirdly charged than anything else so far, Marchy’s body does that weird relaxing thing again, and his hands as they reach again for the shoe are slow but no longer shaking.

Curious, Marcus puts a hand on Brad’s sleek dark head. “Good.” He says. It’s not soft or gentle or any of the things he was with Andre or is with Kuzy, but it’s got as much Dom voice as he can put into it.

The results are both horrible and also the best thing Marcus’ has ever seen. Brad’s entire body crumples until he’s in a heap at Marcus’ feet, completely boneless. Marcus swears softly and bends hurriedly over him. “Hey, hey, Brad, easy. I have you.”

There’s scarcely a hint of iris left in Brad’s eyes with Marcus looks into them. The pupils are blown open, so dark and liquid with what Marcus is afraid might be tears, and Marchy’s breath is coming in quick soft pants. He’s gone down far too fast and now he’s on the edge of dropping. 

“Okay,” Marcus says, to himself, and then more firmly, “Okay.” He kneels and cradles Brad’s face in both his hands, tipping his head up so he can look at the other’s face straight on. “Brad. Marchy. Can you hear me.”

There’s an anxious five seconds where he thinks Brad might be already be too far gone to respond, but then Brad says, very faintly, “Yes.”

“Good,” Marcus says, relieved. “Good, that’s really good. You’re in subspace - pretty far down, I think, and we didn’t negotiate anything.”

“Anything,” Brad echoes, almost a wistful note in his voice, and all of a sudden he’s trying to pull out of Marcus’ hands, almost eagerly reaching for Marcus’ belt and zipper. 

Marcus pulls him up again, not ungently. “Brad, I’m not going to - okay, I was going to do this pissed at you, but I didn’t think you’d - we’re not doing anything with you like this.”

Brad whines, clumsily making another grab at Marcus’ waist, but Marcus captures both hands in his own and squeezes the wrists, just a little, and Brad goes limp and quiet once again, his whole body coming to a shuddering stop.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Marcus says, “You’re going to stay here, on your knees, and wait while I finish getting undressed. Then we’re going to get in bed, and I’m going to do some work while you have a bit of quiet. And you’re going to be so good and still for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Brad says again, still sounding so dazed and overwhelmed Marcus can’t help but lean forward and kiss his temple, just gently, before he stands and moves away.

He makes quick work of the clothes left and slides into some comfortable sweats and a Caps shirt that was honestly probably Nicke’s to start with and pads back to the bed. He pulls back the covers, hauling the duvet off completely and leaving the rest half on the bed and half on the floor. “Up.”

Brad scrambles to obey, going easily with Marcus’ hands as they push him onto his front on middle of the bed. Marcus positions a pillow under Brad’s head and his arms down at his sides and says, “You can move your head and nothing else until I say. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Brad looks as though nothing would please him more than to lay face down at the end of Marcus Johansson’s bed for the rest of his life. It’s a far cry from his attitude when he’d knocked at the door a half an hour ago and farther still from the laughing asshole Marcus has known on both sides of the ice for most of his career who gives negative zero fucks about what anyone thinks of him or tells him to do.

Marcus turns off the overhead light, collects his book, his mobile, and the duvet, and climbs into bed. He turns on the side lamp, fusses with the pillows until they’re just so, and spreads the duvet over his lap. Then he rests both feet very firmly on Brad Marchand’s back, ankles crossed and one heel digging in a little on one side of the spine.

Brad makes a low noise that almost sounds like a moan, and the tips of his fingers twitch, but his eyes are closed, and his breathing has slowed. Marcus watches closely for a few minutes, just in case, but his breaths continue deep and even and any discomfort has smoothed itself entirely from his face. He looks infinitely younger and more peaceful.

Satisfied, Marcus opens  _ Anne-Marie Was Here _ and leans back into the pillows. In an hour or so, he’ll check circulation and make Brad have some water and begin to coax him back up, and after some pretty heavy aftercare they’re going to have to talk about why exactly Brad went down so heavily and reacted so strongly to Marcus telling him he was doing well.

Marcus has a suspicion it’s not going to be a picnic of a conversation. Unless it’s the kind of picnic he went on exactly  _ one _ time with Andre and Christian and Nicky, where Andre spent the entire time flirting as hard as he could with Christian and then spilling the entire bottle of wine all over everything so there’d been soggy sandwiches and an entire hill of ants had descended on the picnic blanket. If it’s that kind of picnic - conversation - he thinks he might be excused for doing what Nicky did and texting Ovi to come and pick him up and silently disappearing into the night. Well. Afternoon.

But then he sighs to himself. It’s not for nothing Brad has a reputation as the brattiest sub in the league. If Brad really has no one to take care of him and making sure he’s getting what he needs - of course Marcus will do it, or find him someone else. His eyes drift down to Brad’s peaceful face, and he feels his own face pull into a reluctant smile. Maybe - maybe this whole thing, being traded to the Bruins, playing with Brad Marchand, won’t be so bad after all. Who knows? They might even have a shot at the Cup.


End file.
